The Reason
by keepcalmfangirlon
Summary: Inspired by a lovely YouTube video by the same name by ArtsyChick181. Originally intended to be a long oneshot, but by the second chapter, the writing part of my brain had other ideas. Sherlock and John argue; Sherlock finally realizes a few things.


**Chapter 1 **

John's silence as he and Sherlock rode back to 221B Baker Street was a bit unnerving to the detective. He'd seen the doctor angry before plenty of times - been the cause of his anger a fair few of those times, if he was honest with himself, and of course he always was - but usually an angry John was a loud John, or at the very least a John who looked very frustrated as he tried to explain calmly exactly why he was upset. To an average outsider, it would've seemed as though the doctor was merely tired, or perhaps that he didn't talk a lot in the first place. Sherlock was neither an outsider nor average, however, and could read John's unhappiness in his flared nostrils, slightly-faster-than-normal pulse in his neck, and the way he was subconsciously using a calming technique the detective had taught him - making a fist with one hand, sticking his thumb out, and wrapping his other hand around it. Though Sherlock still could not each time pinpoint why John was angry with him to an acceptable percentage of accuracy, he had observed that it was often best to let his flatmate and boyfriend cool down a bit before he brought it up. In this way, rather than shouting at each other, they could usually argue more constructively. And so it was that he let the taxi ride pass in silence all the way from Homchurch back to their flat.

However, Sherlock's genius in most areas was sorely made up for by his lack of expertise in social matters. Since this was a different sort of anger, it should've required a different approach. Nonetheless, the men had barely stepped foot in the flat when John stalked off to their room - _his _room. _**Didn't hang up his coat by the door - distracted and forgot, going back out soon. Went to room - hanging coat in closet there, grabbing something from his room before he goes back out. Sounds of rummaging through room - grabbing something from room before going back out. **_Sherlock's mind clicked through observations and possibilities, deducing as always. He went to the kitchen table, checking the progress of his latest experiment, the ability of maggots to detect and avoid different poisons in pieces of flesh. He was jotting a few notes about their activity on a spare bit of napkin when he noticed John was taking the suitcase down out of their closet - _**no cases requiring us to go anywhere overnight, not visiting any family members, not going on holiday**_, his mind flipped through all the possibilities before he remembered something from the crap telly he'd seen. When someone was extremely upset with their significant other they'd throw together some of their belongings and leave, maybe for a day, maybe for a week, maybe forever. Was John angry enough with him that he'd leave? _**Very silent on the way home, hasn't said anything since we've been in, went straight to the bedroom, getting the suitcase down - **_signs pointed to yes. Unless he was throwing Sherlock out - that wasn't as common on telly, but it did occasionally happen... Either way, it was worrisome. The detective threw the scrap of napkin down between his maggot experiment and a cup of stale tea and went to their bedroom, where John was packing his things.

_**Either a hotel or Harry's place, two changes of clothes, could be he's only going for two days or he'll come back for more later when he knows I'll be out or after he's cooled down somewhat... **_He still didn't know why John was mad at him.

"How?" he asked from the doorway.

John continued to throw things into the suitcase, not looking at him.

"How have I upset you?" Sherlock asked again, stepping into the room. His voice sounded unnatural to him, though the question was not unprecedented for him. "Have I said something, done someth-" His question was cut short by John turning round to look at him.

"Do you ever NOT say anything?" he said. "Do you ever even think about what you're saying to someone, how they'll take it, do you ever THINK before you speak?" His voice grew louder until he was shouting. "Do you ever consider how all of us with feelings FEEL when you treat us like idiots or go on like the things that are important to us don't MATTER?" He threw his mobile charger into the suitcase with such force it bounced right back out on the other side.

"John..." Sherlock started, going to him, but the doctor wasn't having it.

"No, Sherlock, you don't care, don't act like you do, I'm leaving, I'm staying with Harry, I can't be around you right now, I can't deal with you like this!" He threw the charger back into the suitcase, avoided Sherlock's attempt to put his hand on his shoulder, and went to collect his toothbrush and things from bathroom.

Sherlock followed after him, trying once more to talk him down. "John, don't leave, I DO car-"

"NO, Sherlock! You don't give a damn about anyone, you didn't even consider that maybe that poor woman might've actually loved her son and missed him, been grieving for him, didn't consider it for a moment, no, why would anybody miss their child if he'd only been an out of work drunk, nevermind that he'd been her only living family, why would she miss him at all?" John brushed past him to go and throw his toiletries into the suitcase.

"Do you even care about any of your friends, your own brother, me? I suppose if my sister'd gotten herself killed you'd tell me it didn't matter because she and I don't always get on, wouldn't you? It wouldn't have mattered if you'd taken the wrong pill from that cabbie and died, would it, as long as you knew whether or not you'd worked it out, who cares how all of us'd feel, who cares how _I _would feel if you were gone, it wouldn't matter _as long you knew the answer_-" his voice was like venom, all icy, chilling, one moment and then made of pure flames licking at him and scorching the next - "and who _cares _if I, Mr. Big Important Genius _Git, _have to scare John out of his mind, _have to deliberately drug him,_ as long as I get the answer I'm looking for - _you don't CARE." _John puctuated this last word with the snapping shut of the suitcase, then stormed past Sherlock and down the stairs, headed for the living room. The dark-haired man followed him, sorting through his words and trying to figure out what he could say to make John stay while he figured out what to do about the rest of it all-

"John, I-

"NO, SHERLOCK! I am LEAVING, I can't even LOOK at you right now-" He grabbed his laptop and mobile from the paper-strewn desk, tossed them into the now open and then shut again suitcase, threw open the door - "I'm LEAVING" - and left, slamming it shut behind him, slamming it shut on Sherlock.

For a minute or two - or maybe it was several more minutes, 20, 30, the detective didn't know or care - he could only stare at the door. Several minutes after that, he became aware he was huddled on the couch, his knees tucked up under his chin, feet on the verge of slipping off. It was weird for him to not be able to call up on a whim an exact memory of his every waking moment, but nevertheless when he, hours later, became conscious of the fact that he had somehow made his way to his bed, it was with the uncomfortable realization he had no memory whatsoever of the time after John had left. All he had were the brief glimpses of awareness, finding himself still staring at the door, being huddled on the couch, and now in his bed - _his_ bed in _his_ room, rarely used and even more rarely used since he and John'd begun sleeping in the upstairs bedroom.

**A/N: **My first Sherlock fic, but not my first experience writing fanfiction. So far the writing mood for this story seems to hit me about once a week, and I've got the second chapter done already, but I wanted to get some feedback before I continue. Like it, love it, hate it? Tell me! :)


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